


what did you do those three days you were dead?

by rheniumvolution



Category: the raven cycle
Genre: Death, Drug Use, M/M, NSFW but not explicit, Resurrection, a lot of blasphemy, how did this happen to me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-24 01:33:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4900441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rheniumvolution/pseuds/rheniumvolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The line between good and bad blurs until all you know is if you want something, he’ll give it to you. It doesn’t matter what it is. He’d tear down Heaven, kill all the angels, tear God to pieces between his teeth if you wanted it. </p><p>“You’re my favorite bruise,” he says, hushed, into the space between your ribs, and you smile, tug on his hair until he crawls up your body and kisses you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	what did you do those three days you were dead?

When you live and die and come back time after time and know you were never truly alive in the first place, just the product of a fucked up kid with quick hands and sharp teeth, you forget about little things like morals.

The line between good and bad blurs until all you know is if you want something, he’ll give it to you. It doesn’t matter what it is. He’d tear down Heaven, kill all the angels, tear God to pieces between his teeth if you wanted it.

You want it. You want him to burn the whole fucking world down for you, leave it in a pretty pile of smoldering ruin in the rearview window, but you don’t ask him to. You don’t push it. He hands you pills and guns and cigarettes and you tell him it’s enough.

“You’re my favorite bruise,” he says, hushed, into the space between your ribs, and you smile, tug on his hair until he crawls up your body and kisses you.

\--

This isn’t Hell, but it’s close. The lights turn the world red, streets oil-slick in the shadows. No more thrones, just the backseat of his ridiculous car, his hands clutching your hips.

Sometimes, when he’s this close, when you can feel him under your skin, you feel like praying. You think of Adam and Eve and their garden, and it’s not just the two of you, but who fucking cares about the others when he looks at you like that? This city isn’t a garden; it’s the snake. The kingdom beckons you from under the skyscrapers and you quiet the noises with the roar of an engine, the way he gasps when you put your hand on his throat.

When you live and die and come back time after time, you start bringing the other side back with you. Kavinsky doesn’t have Hell or Heaven in his mind, you know.

He’s got a forest full of dark things. He’s got a hand full of pills and rings like bruises under his eyes. The snake whispers sweet nothings in your ear and he promises you Hell and Heaven and everything in between, so you kiss him on the mouth and tell him you love him. You’re more than a little worried he believes you.

This isn’t Eden, but it’s close.

\--

“Proko?”

“Hm?”

“What’s it like?”

You don’t have to ask what he means. You never do. Maybe it’s because you’re the product of his brain, or because you spend all of your time so close to him, but you never have to wonder what he’s thinking. That street might go both ways. You haven’t bothered to check. If he can read you the same way you can read him—well. Poor Kavinsky.

“It’s like nothing,” you lie. You lie, you lie, you lie. “Like going to sleep, and then I wake up and I’m back in the backseat of your shitty car.”

You don’t tell him about the burning. You don’t tell him about the demons in your head, whispering filthy little nothings about how you shouldn’t exist, shouldn’t be alive, shouldn’t be his favorite, because who would care so much about such a terrible soldier.

“Oh,” he says, and you know he knows it isn’t the truth. “I’m sorry.”

You laugh, pull him closer, run your hands through his hair. “It’s not your fault.”

“I keep bringing you back.”

You shiver. “I know.”

“It hurts you.”

“You stop bringing me back and we will have _words_ , K.”

“Yeah,” he says, ducking his head into your neck. He holds you just this side of too tightly and you can’t bring yourself to give a shit. “Yeah, okay.”

\--

Kavinsky’s eyes are wide and he’s watching you and your head fucking hurts, Christ.

“What happened? Shit, you’re bleeding, what the fuck, Proko—“

“You said we needed bread.” You say, “I got bread.”

“And what?” Kavinsky asks. “Did the bread corner you in a dark alley? Did it steal your fucking wallet?”

“Well, the _bread_ didn’t.”

“Oh my God. Oh my God, shut up and come here. No, don’t you dare get blood on my fucking couch, fuck you, come into the kitchen.” Kavinsky patches you up, tells you to stop taunting guys who are twice your size, kisses you like an apology or something close, and you don’t tell him that you’d do it again right that second if it made him look at you like that.

Maybe that’s fucked up, how you’re so desperate for him to touch you. Maybe it’s something you should work on. But then Kavinsky’s pushing you back into the counter and the demons are murmuring quietly amongst themselves and you’re saying his name like a litany. A novena for the saint of resurrection. You think: fuck Lazarus. You think: I am Lazarus. You think: that might make him Jesus, or something close.

“You have to take better care of yourself,” he says when he bites your shoulder.

“You’re a fucking hypocrite,” you hiss.

“What’s your point?” and he’s grinning up at you, and you’d answer him, you would, but he’s sinking down to his knees on the dirty bathroom tiles and all you can do is slam your head back against the mirror and gasp, “ _Jesus Christ_ ,” and he laughs like he knows.

\--

It’s somewhere north of two am when your phone lights up and you’re not actually sure why you answer, but Kavinsky doesn’t give you a chance for as much as a hello before he’s saying, “We’re having phone sex, asshole, get your dick out.”

“I hate you,” you say, but your hand is already making its way under the blankets.

“Shut up, I’m drunk, you’re far away. Why the fuck did you think leaving was a good idea?”

You can hear him shuffling on the other side, rearranging and getting comfortable and you want, desperately, suddenly, to see him spread out and flushed underneath you. “You’re the one who decided to race a mob boss and win.”

Kavinsky whines, “Don’t care, it was worth it, fuck, come home already. Miss your hands.”

The word home rings around your head like a fire alarm, chases out all the hellfire and leftover ghosts, and something in you aches. “Shut up, I’m cleaning up your fucking mess, K. What else do you miss?”

“Everything,” Kavinsky breathes. There’s a pause. You aren’t sure if it’s your turn to talk, you’ve never done this before, but before you can get to it, Kavinsky lets out a startled little laugh and asks, “So. What are you wearing?”

You hang up on him then and there, but when he calls again, you answer on the first ring. The ghosts stay away all night and the skeletons in your closet sleep soundly. In the morning, Skov knocks on your motel room door too loudly and says, “Fuck you, you two kept me awake all goddamn night, you’re in charge of the coffee run.”

You laugh and laugh and the sheets still smell like sex, your mouth tastes like tar and alcohol turned sour, the light outside is too harsh. You pull on a pair of sunglasses that aren’t yours and get Starbucks for your fellow soldiers and all their demons.

On the way back to Henrietta, Skov turns to you.

“Keep your eyes on the fucking road, dick,” you say, and he laughs, “Does it matter?”

“No,” you shrug. “Guess not. He’d just bring us right back to him.”

“I’d be first,” Skov smirks.

“I’d take the longest,” you grin. It’s your oldest argument, all the words familiar and fond.

Skov’s smirk turns soft. “He’s more careful with you. Every time I come back—there’s always something off, something not quite right about me. Something changes every time, I can tell. You—you take the longest. He wants to get everything right.”

“Fuck,” you whisper. “I mean, no homo, right?”

Both of you laugh. You don’t talk about it.

\--

Lynch stares at you when he thinks you don’t notice. Finally, it gets to be too much. “The fuck do you want?”

He blinks at you, slowly, curious, doesn’t look away. “He loves you. Even though you’re a dream. That’s—huh. I never thought—“

“Not thinking seems to be something you’re good at.”

“Fuck you.”

There. The balance is back. You settle. The hairs on the back of your neck fall back into place.

“Go home, Lynch.”

\--

When you live and die and come back time after time and know you were never truly alive in the first place, just the product of a fucked up kid with quick hands and sharp teeth, you forget about little things like morals.

He never tears down Heaven for you. He never kills all your demons, or loves them, or whatever fucked up thing you think you wanted. He never does any of it. But he loves you, even if it’s twisted. He loves you in the worst way, and he makes your ghosts fuck off into the part of your brain where you can’t ever hear them.

So he never kills you, or God, or anyone. But he goes out with a bang, and you go with him, and it’s enough. It’s not good, nowhere close, but the snake hands you the pomegranate, and you eat it, and he kisses it off your lips, and it’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> haha this isn't even that good but whatever man honestly fuck writer's block!!! anyway find me on tumblr @phaethos!! come say hi. talk to me about religious imagery.


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